Twenty-six

FORD STOOD UNDER the red glass overhang of the Thompson Center, trying to stay dry from the rain.

He’d just finished interviewing the director of the Department of Children and Family Services for his story on parents who’d abused or neglected their children while supposedly under the agency’s supervision. The interview had run longer than he’d expected—the director had been surprisingly willing to talk—and since it was already five o’clock he decided to scrap his plan to return to the Trib office and call it a day instead.

He checked his cell phone, hoping to have a message from Victoria.

No luck.

He was very eager to hear how her meeting with Sutter had gone, so he decided to try to catch her at work. The rain began to fall steadily as he walked the three blocks, so while waiting for a red light to change, he wrestled his umbrella out of his messenger bag.

Just then, he spotted Victoria as she stepped out of the revolving doors of her building. She opened her umbrella and began walking in the opposite direction.

He called her name, but she didn’t turn, his voice undoubtedly drowned out by the cacophony of street noise as cars, taxis, and buses whooshed between them on the rain-slick street. It took a good minute for the light to change, so by the time he crossed the street he’d lost sight of her on the crowded sidewalk that was a sea of umbrellas.

Walking quickly and weaving through other pedestrians, he saw her cross the street ahead of him, and realized with an ironic smile that she’d led him right back to the Thompson Center. Seeing her head in the direction of the underground subway station, he hurried to make the light.

“Victoria!” he called, closing the gap.

She still didn’t look back as she headed down the stairs to the station.

Not far behind her now, he pushed through the turnstile and made his way to the underground platform, which was even more crowded than usual because of the rain. While closing his umbrella, he spotted Victoria on the far end of the platform, her back to him as she waited for the train.

He made his way over and tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped and turned around, and only then did he see that she had earbuds in that were covered by her long hair.

“Ms. Slade. Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

“Ford.” She stared at him in surprise, before ducking her head to take out her earbuds.

But the strangest thing was, before she looked away, he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of something else in her eyes.

Something that looked oddly like panic.

*   *   *

HE COULDN’T BE here.

Victoria, who’d been calm just moments ago, felt a rush of anxiety as she stashed the earbuds in the outside pocket of her briefcase, next to the umbrella. One of the reasons she’d been comfortable taking on the challenge of riding the subway during rush hour was that she’d had an exit strategy planned in the event anything had gone awry. She’d reassured herself, the same way she had during her exercise class and the time she’d gotten nervous on the elevator, that if she felt faint or panicky, she could always just get off the train and take a cab the rest of the way home.

But Ford being here changed everything. Obviously, he would know something was wrong if she suddenly decided to get off before their stop. And since she didn’t want him, of all people, to know about her panic attacks, that meant one thing.

She was trapped.

Her heart began to pound, so she took a deep breath. From the diaphragm. Just like the good doctor had taught her.

Ford cocked his head. “Are you okay?”

Shit. He already was looking at her funny and they hadn’t even gotten on the train yet.

This did not make her feel any less panicked.

Come on, Slade, pull it together. You can do this.

She forced a smile. “Sure. I’m just surprised to see you here. What are the odds, right?” At the sound of an approaching train, she swallowed hard, but maintained her nonchalant façade.

“No kidding. I just finished an interview at the Thompson Center, walked to your office and saw you leave, and basically did a loop right back here,” Ford said before the train rushed into the station and drowned him out.

Victoria nodded, her attention diverted as the train came to a stop and the doors opened. She thought about bailing; she could say that she forgot something in her office, but Ford would probably offer to go with her anyway. But more important, she didn’t want to run from this. She didn’t want to be the person who couldn’t get on a train if she had an audience. She wanted to be herself again, the unflappable, panic-free woman she’d been before the break-in had messed up everything. Because her life had been good before—and a hell of a lot less complicated when it didn’t include therapy, and a pesky psychologist with pesky questions, and a summer rental with a sexy, charming next-door neighbor who made her feel things she didn’t want to feel.

So if she wanted her old life back, if she wanted to get back to that person she’d been before, it started right here. Right now.

She was getting on that damn train.

That decided, she took another deep breath and stepped forward.

Trying not to be obvious about it, she let a few people pass in front of her and Ford, so that the two of them wouldn’t be stuck at the back of the car. They ended up about a third of the way down the aisle, not too far from the door.

She only had to make it four measly stops, she reminded herself. Less than a fifteen-minute train ride.

“You’re killing me with the suspense here,” Ford said.

Victoria blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Your meeting with Sutter,” he said as the doors closed. “How did it go?”

She shifted her weight as the train began to move, drawing on the trick she’d learned during the Sutters’ open house, when she’d begun to feel light-headed in the closet. If she focused on something other than her fear, her body would stop responding as if she were in a fight-or-flight situation.

Hopefully.

“It went well.” She proceeded to tell Ford about her meeting with Sutter, and the distraction helped. Although she remained hyperaware of her surroundings—primarily the fact that she was in a crowded train car underground—she was able to keep up her end of the conversation.

“He could’ve concocted that entire story in the two hours before you met him at the coffee shop,” Ford said, looking skeptical.

“Maybe. But you didn’t see his face when he asked about Zoe. He was teary-eyed.”

Ford grunted. “Probably freaking out over how he’s going to pay child support for two kids, and for a divorce lawyer, once his wife hears about this alleged ‘break’ they were on and kicks him to the curb for good.”

She nudged him. “Let’s just see how this plays out.”

This is Chicago, said the train’s automated PA system as they pulled into the station. Doors open on the right at Chicago.

Victoria exhaled. She was halfway home, with only two stops to go. Reassured by this, she began to feel proud of her progress, when—

The doors sprang open and all hell broke loose.

A large group of teenagers wearing yellow camp T-shirts clambered onto the train, laughing, chanting some kind of cheer, and pushing each other around.

“Stay together!” someone called out as the group shoved their way inside the already crowded train. To make room, the people at the front of the aisle moved toward the back of the car.

Having no choice, Victoria moved back, too.

It was an extremely tight fit. The people in the aisle were packed in with barely enough room to breathe, awkwardly jostling one another as the train began to pull away from the station. Ford put one hand on her hip, steadying her. With her shoulder pressed against his chest, he shrugged off their situation with the ease of a commuter who’d been in this situation many times before.

“Beats trying to find a cab in the rain,” he said.

Yes. Sure. For normal people.

“That’s true,” she managed to say. She gripped the handle on the back of the seat next to her, suddenly feeling as though it had become uncomfortably warm in the train car.

Please, not now.

She forced herself to say something—anything. “So what was your interview about?”

Ford chatted on, while she silently tried to pull herself together. But every time she’d get into her relaxation techniques—I feel quiet, my shoulders are loose—he would ask her a question, or pause for her to comment. And of course he would, because to him this was just a normal, everyday conversation between two people riding the subway home—not exposure therapy for a goddamn mental disorder.

My legs and feet feel warm and heavy.

As they pulled into the Division station, she had a decision to make. She could get off the train now, which would look really odd since they lived only one stop away, and clue Ford into the fact that something was amiss. Or she could suck it up, and stay put.

The Division station and her stop, Damen, were so close. Only about a two-minute train ride apart.

She made up her mind.

She was going to finish this thing.

A few people got off at the Division stop, but somehow the group of rowdy teenagers just subsumed that space, giving her no respite. When the train began moving again, she took a deep breath.

My neck feels relaxed. My breathing is soft, full, and easy.

The Damen station was aboveground—the Blue Line continued on an elevated track from that point—so any moment now she would notice the train ascending, she would see the gray haze of natural light and hear raindrops on the windows. And then she would know she was home free.

My entire body is relaxed and comfortable.

Ford peered down at her, his lips curved in a coy smile. “Are you around tonight? I thought maybe we could grab something to eat.”

She knew what she was supposed to say in response, the expected quip—You know what happens every time we do that—but her lips felt like they were moving slower and she’d just started to form the words when—

The train came to a sudden stop.

The guy in front of Victoria bumped into her, pushing her back into Ford. She swallowed, and waited for the train to start moving again.

It didn’t.

“Come on. What now?” the guy in front of her complained.

She tried to remain calm—they were probably just waiting for another train to clear the station. But then her mind began racing. What if this wasn’t a momentary delay? What if she were stuck here for a while, in this enclosed underground metal box that had no exits? She’d never make it; she’d already been hanging on by a thread, so the train needed to start moving—now—before she fainted or caused a scene, before everyone started staring at her, because everyone on the train was going to realize that something was wrong with her, and worst of all Ford would know that something was wrong with her, and—

“I have to get out of here.” She tried inhaling, but it wasn’t working; the air in the train car felt oppressively stuffy.

Ford looked down at her, and a flicker of understanding crossed his eyes. “The train,” he said quietly, as if something about this registered with him. He put his hand on her elbow reassuringly. “It’s okay. We’ll be moving any moment now.”

The train lurched forward, but it was too late; she felt light-headed and oddly disconnected from her body, as if this had become a dream, and Ford was saying something to her but all she heard was a rush of white noise as her vision narrowed and darkness closed in.

“I think I’m going to faint,” she murmured.

The last thing she felt before blacking out was his arms closing around her.

*   *   *

SHE HEARD THE sound of a man’s voice, commanding and authoritative.

Coming out.

It took her a moment to recognize the voice as Ford’s, to remember where she was, and to realize that she was moving.

He was carrying her off the train.

She felt the firmness of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms cradling her. When a rush of cooler air hit her, she breathed it in, slow and deep.

Ford shifted her in his arms, and she heard murmurs. Other voices.

“We’re off the train, Victoria.” His tone was reassuring. “I’m going to call 9-1-1 and get you some help.”

Please, no. She was already making enough of a scene. She gripped his shirt with one hand. “No. Just . . . don’t move.”

Forcing her eyes open, she saw that she and Ford were on the train platform, and that a small crowd of people had gathered around them.

All staring at her.

“I’m fine,” she said to the crowd. She went for a weak joke, to minimize the weirdness of the situation. “Guess I probably shouldn’t have skipped lunch today.”

“I think it would help if she could get a little space,” Ford told the spectators, not unkindly. Then he lowered his voice. “Victoria. Look at me.”

Really, she wasn’t sure she could face him right then. But, figuring she had to bite the bullet sometime, she finally tilted her head back and met his gaze.

His eyes were a warm blue, his expression a mixture of relief and reassurance. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

She felt a sharp tug in her chest and opened her mouth to thank him for getting her off the train—but then she noticed something. “You’re soaked.”

The back of his hair and neck were all wet, the water having spread along his collar and shoulders, and even beginning to creep down the front of his shirt and the leather strap of his messenger bag. She saw then that they were only partially covered by the overhang above them, and realized that he was using his body to protect her as he held her in his arms.

Shielding her from the rain.

He peered down with a soft smile, his voice husky. “Well, you said not to move.”

She swallowed hard, the butterflies that had been lingering in her stomach suddenly having multiplied into a full-fledged swarm.

Oh, God. No.

She looked away from Ford, focusing instead on the rain dripping down from the overhang as she fought back the tightening in her chest.

Breathe, Slade.

“Victoria—are you okay?” Ford asked. “Say something.”

She took a moment to collect herself, and then faced him. “I just . . . want to go home.”